Do As I Say As I Do
by Croik
Summary: Another John, Hoffman, and Amanda fic set immediately after Saw II, in the Hofferz pov. Hoffman has a bit of a revelation. Formatting fixed!


Saw, its characters and settings, are being used here without permission and for no profit. This fic is rated PG but there might be some naughty language. It takes place after the end of Saw II, following the continuity of my previous fic, Scorn With Caution.

Sorry about the formatting being weird / the fic cutting off before.

**Do As I Say As I Do**

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Hoffman stayed at the precinct until Kerry called in for tech team and bomb squad. When he left, everyone at the precinct assumed he was headed to the scene. When he didn't show up, everyone at the scene assumed he was still at the precinct. He spent the next ninety minutes waiting in a dark alley.

He was getting fairly well skilled at sitting and waiting in dark alleys, as a matter of fact. Just the night before he had graced one very much like the one he occupied now, preparing to snatch up a certain bald degenerate. And before that, a notorious snitch he was a little sorry to lose. And before that, another waste of a drug addict not even his department had bothered to look for. Time for him was becoming measured in human waste wriggling under the pressure of a loaded syringe.

That night, it was not Hoffman's patience and predatory skill under Jigsaw's employ; he had been promoted from the muscle to the wheel man. Should their subject fail his test it was Hoffman's job to recover his mentor and return him to a place of safety. They had not discussed instructions should the test succeed, but Hoffman was certain that would not be the case anyway.

He had known Detective Eric Mathews a lot longer than any engineering genius serial killer, after all--longer than any self-righteous addict groupie, too. If either of them had asked his opinion on their current farce, he would have explained the hundreds of reasons why no rational human, let alone their particular choice, stood a chance at survival. But he wasn't dealing with rational humans; they did not ask, and he offered no suggestions. Many times during his ninety-minute vigil he wondered if survival was even part of the game to begin with.

Matthew's car pulled into the ally. Hoffman was well hidden, but he tugged his mask on anyway. Hot breath steamed his cheeks as he watched Matthews leap from the vehicle and storm into the back entrance of the house. Silence returned to the alley, but Hoffman remained still for several minutes more, just in case. At long last he climbed out of his car and strode forward.

"I'd say I told you so," he muttered as he approached the passenger side door. "But you never gave me the chance."

Hoffman opened the door, and was given pause by the sight. John had been getting paler for a long while, but his sickly white skin was concealed with dark bruises and drying blood. He sat curled in the passenger seat, stiff and silent like a corpse in rigor, his thin lips pulled in a pained sneer. Even having witnessed the effects of Matthews' temper before, Hoffman was surprised by John's brutalized state, and even more so by the unnatural angle of his left index finger.

Hoffman hesitated. For a moment he even wondered if John was truly dead, and his mind whirled with the possibilities that suddenly lay before him. If John were dead, the tests would stop; he would be one cleanup away from freedom. No more dark alleys, no more needles pumping sedative, no more watching men and women kill themselves in the name of redemption. His heart pounded in anticipation of a simpler life, back to apathy and alcohol and sleep.

But John wasn't dead; when Hoffman escaped his imagination he could hear the hollow breath hissing past John's purple lips. Not that it made much of a difference--if he walked away John would die right where he was, entombed in a black SUV and picked apart by rats. It was only what he deserved. It was an easy price to pay for freedom.

Amanda.

Hoffman looked to the house. It would be an easy thing to leave John to die, but a house full of corpses would not be the only loose end. He could wait next to the door for her to emerge, quiet and patient just like John had taught him. He could shoot her in the head and no one would hear --he could strangle her with his bare hands just to be sure every last gasp of life was gone. When he tried to imagine it bile rose in his throat, and he yanked his mask up in hopes of calming himself with breath of cool night air.

"Mark..."

Hoffman rubbed his face, and all his visions left, his dreams of escape with them.

John was looking at him. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other open only a slit, but his gaze was as piercing as it had ever been. Trembling, he lifted his hand.

Hoffman took the injured limb in both of his. "He really let you have it, didn't he?" he mumbled. He took a deep breath and snapped John's broken finger back in place.

John shuddered, and a sound of pain gurgled from his throat. "Where's Amanda?"

"Still inside." Hoffman glanced back to the building. If Matthews was as enraged as John's face testified there was reason to be fearful for Amanda. "Let's stick to the plan," he said, pulling John's arm over his shoulder. "I'm getting you out of here."

John groaned as he was carried, carefully, out of the SUV. He weighed disturbingly little and his breath was labored. As Hoffman strapped him carefully into the passenger side of their cash-bought "work" car, he made a checklist in his mind of what John would require once they arrived at the next workshop: IV fluid, oxygen, medication, possibly something to eat. It only briefly occurred to him that only a few minutes ago he was considering efforts to the opposite effect.

Hoffman followed the plan. He changed the license plate on Matthews' car, removed the registration and everything else that might have identified it, and hid it in the house's garage. Then he returned to John, and drove them away from the alley.

"I'll come back for Amanda once you're in bed," he said. "I'll probably have to check in after that, so cleaning up the bodies will have to wait." He glanced at John sideways. "How long do you want me to give him?"

John didn't answer. His eyes were closed, and he was leaning against the window as if asleepor unconscious. Hoffman sighed and focused on the road again. "I hope Amanda's not doing anything stupid back there," he muttered. "It was a lot of work setting this up. You spoil her."

It felt good to say it, and he didn't regret it even when John unexpectedly coughed, and replied, "It was important."

They didn't have time for another philosophical debate; Hoffman had had enough in a year to last him the rest of his life. Still, he rose to the occasion. "I understand why you chose him," he said. "But giving Amanda her chance for revenge isn't going to teach her how to do what we do."

John's head was still pressed against the window, leaving a smear of sweet and blood. His eyes were unfocused and his shoulders sagged. He was still the most infallible creature Hoffman had ever been in the presence of. "You're disappointing me, Mark," he said quietly. "I thought you understood better."

"I do," Hoffman insisted defensively. "But you said it couldn't be personal, yet you're doing Amanda favors. Don't tell me that picking him had nothing to do with what he did to her."

"It was for her," John said, rubbing his swollen hand. "And for me." He turned his head, slowly, so that he could stare at Hoffman. "And for you."

Hoffman kept his gaze stubbornly ahead, but he wasn't a skilled actor or liar, and he was sure that even in his wounded state John could see him squirm. "What do you mean?"

"Did you think," John continued coldly, "that I didn't know about you and Eric Matthews?"

The color drained slowly from Hoffman's face. He should have known--John knew everything. "That was a long time ago."

"So was your sister's murder."

It had been a long time, but when John said as much so bluntly, so clinically, the anger Hoffman had felt that night flared in him again, seething beneath the surface of detachment he had cultivated over the past year. He tried to keep that bitterness from his face, but of course, John saw it.

And he went on. "All it takes is an angry cop with a flashlight to ruin a murder case," he said, but then was forced to stop by a fit of coughing. "Well. You know that."

"They had history," Hoffman replied, though why he was defending Matthews he had no idea. Maybe it was just instinct by then, repeating the excuses he had told himself for years. "Matthews spent his whole time as a beat cop busting addicts and their dealers. They never should have been alone together."

"Is that a good enough excuse?"

Hoffman swore half-heartedly under his breath. "Enough," he grumbled. "I get it. He screwed us both. Is that why you did this?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What is this, employee appreciation day or something?"

John was silent a long moment before answering again; he was struggling with consciousness, but still determined to finish, and seeing him so sincere forced Hoffman to calm his agitation and pay closer attention. He did want to understand--he told himself that over and over. He wanted to understand.

"Eric Matthews," John said slowly, "didn't have a personal grudge against either of you. He did not sabotage your sister's case out of spite. He was...broken." With a deep breath he pushed away from the door and sat up on his own power. "You--and Amanda--are a symptom of his illness."

Hoffman slowly straightened as well. "An illness...you were trying to 'cure' tonight," he supposed.

"Yes." John sighed with relief. "I want Amanda to have peace, the kind of peace only forgiveness can give her. But that is not possible, so long as the people that harmed her remain unrepentant themselves." He reached out, his long, pale fingers winding tightly in the sleeve of Hoffman's jacket. "Remember what you said to me, about Seth Baxter."

Hoffman remembered, and the truth that John was directing him towards was suddenly very clear to him, and sobering. "I said he was an animal." He glanced to the fingers knotted at his elbow, but he could not bring himself to try to pull free. "I told myself I was in the right because I was keeping him from doing what he did to someone else."

"And you did," John continued. "You kept him from harming more, by sacrificing your chance to forgive him. I wanted Amanda to have that chance. To have the peace you denied yourself."

"You're saying that you can't forgive someone unless you can also help them. So you're letting Amanda test him so that she can get over it." Hoffman shook his head. "But he failed; where does that leave her?"

"It's not over yet." John coughed. "Besides, if you both understand now...it was worth it. You must understand."

They reached the gravely parking lot of the old meat plant. As Hoffman looked up at the faded logo rotting on the building's side he felt something slide into place within his brain; for the first time he had really listened to what John was trying to tell him, and it opened up an understanding he hadn't expected. "Then, the tests... You picked that doctor not just to punish him or to help him. You were trying to forgive him."

Hoffman stopped the car at the back and faced his mentor seriously. "What are you trying to forgive Amanda for?"

John's chin was tipped down to his chest, and his breath had returned to the shallow, wet wheeze that Hoffman had first discovered him with. He was finally unconscious, and did not stir even when Hoffman gently shook him. With a sigh Hoffman pulled the bony fingers off his arm and climbed out of the car. "Maybe it doesn't matter," he muttered as he moved to the passenger side.

Once John was in bed, the recipient of as much medical care as was available, Hoffman drove back to the alley. Amanda was seated just outside the back door of the house; he knew it was her by the way she pulled her knees to her chest like a crying child. As soon as he climbed out of his car, his phone rang. He answered it as he started toward her. "Hoffman."

It was Kerry. "It's Eric," she said, sounding as desperate he had imagined she would. "He's gone--Jigsaw too. We need you at the scene right now."

"What scene?" He stopped in front of Amanda and nudged her sulking, crumpled form with his toe, but she didn't acknowledge him.

"What sce--Christ Mark, don't you have your radio on? Where the hell are you?"

"A bar."

Kerry made a sound that was half sigh, half growl of disgust. "Jesus. I thought you were sober now."

"I'm not on duty--I'm allowed one goddamn beer." That sounded like something he would have said before. "I'm on my way out. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Hoffman hung up and shoved his phone in his pocket. "You heard that, didn't you?" he said to the woman still at his feet. "I can't stay here any longer. I'll drop you off with John at Gideon but then I gotta go."

Amanda flinched, and at long last she stirred. Her movements were slow, and she even lifted her hands up seeking assistance. With a sigh Hoffman took them and hauled her to her feet. "Are you all right?"

He smelled the blood on her, but was still surprised when she lifted her head. She looked even worse off than John, her face smeared and swollen, tears burning her eyes. Wincing, Hoffman took her shoulders to steady her. "Amanda, what happened?" he asked seriously. "Where's Matthews?" He looked to the door, and his heart gave an anxious flutter at the thought of an armed Eric Matthews bursting out of the house and finding them together. He unsnapped his gun holster.

Amanda sagged, and instinctually Hoffman pulled her closer so she could lean against him. She wound her fingers in front of his jacket. "He's inside," she whispered, her voice thick with the promise of more tears. "He'she's dead."

Hoffman frowned. "What happened?" he asked again. "Are you sure?"

Amanda shook her head against his chest. "Pleasedon't tell John."

Hoffman sighed, but he didn't think he would get anything else out of her. Something had gone wrong, and though he was tempted to berate her for it, she was small and trembling in his arms. She was also bleeding on him. "All right," he said, grabbing her around the waist. "Come on." He led her back to the car. "It's over--let's get you out here."

He put her in the passenger seat, and dug a roll of paper towels out of the back. "Clean up the best you can. John's been medicated so there's no chance of him waking up and seeing you like this." He was interested to know what John might have thought of his teacher's pet arriving home in such a state, but he wasn't completely without sympathy; she must have been in a great deal of pain, as she thanked him when he handed her the towels.

Kerry was expecting him. It was dangerous to keep her waiting long, especially with no alibi, but he couldn't leave the house until he knew for certain what had happened to Matthews. "Take it easy," he said. "I'll be right back."

"What are you going to do?" Amanda asked immediately.

"I'm going to handle it." Hoffman squeezed her shoulder. "Just stay put." And before she could reply he shut the door.

Hoffman pulled a flashlight out of the trunk and checked his gun again on his way to the house. With his mask on and hood up he ventured inside, moving swiftly through the familiar halls to the basement passage. He hadn't decided yet what he would do, no matter what he found. Finding a corpse would solve a lot of problems, but he couldn't bring himself to wish for it.

The body was slumped against the wall, one turn away from the stairs. Hoffman approached slowly, flashing his light across the Matthews' soiled face. Nothing stirred, until a prod from Hoffman's toe elicited a low moan from the still-breathing detective.

Eric Matthews was still alive.

Hoffman watched him, waiting to feel something. He had prepared for the night's test expecting relief in its wake, even pleasure at the knowledge that suffering had been turned on the worthiest of recipients. He had even considered the possibility of guilt. Looking on Matthews then, defeated and broken, he was not sure he felt either. There was only a distant disgust, and frustration. They had spent months planning for that night, all to ruin. Matthews had learned nothing. Amanda had forgiven no one. John's work was still a waste, and his chosen accomplice was a crying little girl. Every effort had been wasted.

Hoffman crouched down next to Matthews, and after a moment's consideration removed his mask. There was only one thing left that could make Matthews' blood worthwhile, and however John discounted him he was the only one left that could offer it. Maybe he could do what Amanda was not able to. "Eric."

His voice echoed against the black of the hall, and briefly, Hoffman lost all fear of discovery. All Matthews had to do was open his eyes, and he would know who had punished him. But he didn't, and Hoffman continued.

"I forgive you," he said, testing the words on his lips. "I forgive you for what you did, Eric."

To his amazement, he meant it. What point was there in hating a man that was already destroyed? Matthews had ruined his life with anger and selfishness, had tasted the pain of family lost, and from the looks of it had especially lost enough blood to properly comprehend his punishment. He had lost, but he had suffered, and that was enough for Hoffman.

Hoffman let out a low sigh. John had been right about one thing: he did feel peaceful. The anger that not even an hour ago had been so close to him was seeping out through his boots, through every slow breath of stale basement air. Having lost his bitterness towards Matthews he no longer felt anything for him. He was just another subject, as he was supposed to be.

But that didn't mean he could let Matthews leave. The house was still too valuable and useful, and more importantly Matthews could identify Amanda as an accomplice. Until Hoffman was sure that there was no chance Amanda could ever be apprehended and implicate him as well, he knew he had to protect her.

Hoffman replaced his mask and set his flashlight on Matthews' chest. "John's right," he said as he took Matthews by the ankles and started to drag him down the hall. "It's not personal--I do forgive you. That's why I'm not killing you." He glanced over his shoulder, and it suddenly occurred to him just where he could stash a troublesome detective for a while. "I'll leave that decision to John."

When he was finished he returned to the car. Amanda had cleaned as much of the blood off her face as she could manage, but that only made it more obvious what a mess she was. She fingered the gash on her cheek nervously as Hoffman drove them away from the house. "What did you do?" she asked anxiously.

"I took care of it," Hoffman replied. "If John asks, you can tell him it was me."

She didn't reply, and remained silent for the rest of the trip to Gideon. Deep down, he hoped that she would simply tell John what she had tried to do--that she would at last confess that she was not the worthy apprentice John thought her to be. But he was comforted in the knowledge that John would see through her eventually. He always did.


End file.
